


SKYDUST I

by hellhoundsprey



Series: skydust!verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alien!Castiel, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Space, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Body Horror, Bottom Sam Winchester, Bulge Kink, Cybernetics, Daddy Kink, Emotional Sex, M/M, Overstimulation, PAH – porn & angst & horror, Prosthesis, Recreational Drug Use, Top Castiel (Supernatural), Witch Sam Winchester, yes you heard me. daddy kink in SPACE baby
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:00:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22897633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: In a galaxy far far away, Sam Winchester brings a mythical creature home with him.
Relationships: Castiel/Sam Winchester
Series: skydust!verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1633717
Comments: 28
Kudos: 58





	SKYDUST I

**Author's Note:**

> Pronoun use is intentionally inconsistent regarding the God.
> 
> More tags might get added as we go along, because nobody fucking knows where these jerks will take it.

Sam hears the bottles clinking all the way up the stairs.

An unnecessary holler of, “Sammy?” and he shouts, “Yeah,” and throws another pleading look towards the kitchen table.

‘Dad’ meets his eyes with as much poise as Sam can imagine.

Which ain’t a lot.

The door bangs open and Sam smile-turns politely towards his brother who enters beers first. His other arm balances ridiculous amounts of take-out food and underneath all that grime and oil, yeah, Sam’s real fucking happy to see him, too.

Dean’s wide smile loses its shine upon him spotting the other person in the room.

“Oh,” he says, and as his forehead begins to crease, Sam begins to sweat. “Dad. Didn’t know you were…would be back already.”

Dad’s burly body leans comfortable on his forearms, on the table. He scoffs, “Missed you too, Dean.”

Sam tries, “Great, I’m starving,” but he’s barely gotten up and both the food and beer crash to the floor.

From behind his pointed and loaded gun, Dean grits, “What are you?”

‘Dad’ doesn’t look surprised, not at all. To Sam’s dismay, he seems…curious.

Oh, no.

“Answer, goddammit!”

Dean takes another step forward—a great incentive for Sam to step between the two, hands raised, eyebrows kissing his hairline. “Dean, calm down, everything’s okay, okay?” He nearly falls over his own feet.

Dean doesn’t lower his weapon. Doesn’t blink as he remains laser-focused on their ‘guest’. His mecha trigger finger doesn’t flinch, doesn’t budge.

A distrustful flick of eyes to Sam, then back.

“You better start talking.”

Sam begins, “It’s uh, kind of a long story,” and Dean, unfazed, gun still pointed, replies, “Great, I’ve got time.”

Sam grunts his sigh and grabs the gun, yanks it to the side.

Dean glares but doesn’t reset his stance.

“It’s not Dad.”

“Oh, newsflash.”

“It’s a shapeshifter.”

Dean’s eyebrows raise and the corners of his mouth drag downwards. He nods, unimpressed.

“It’s kind of…” The word feels wrong in his mouth. “…a god.”

Dean’s eyebrows stay where they are. His eyes switch to ‘Dad’, back to Sam.

The gun barrel is in Sam’s face faster than he can blink.

“Hands where I can see ’em.”

“Dean…”

“This ain’t no discussion.”

Dean steps back for safety and Sam raises his arms just to show his compliance.

“Look—” Dean speaks calmly now, quieter. Not many of those who considered this a betterment live to tell the tale. “—I don’t know what the hell is going on right now, but I don’t like it.”

Well.

This is going great so far.

Sam begins again, “Dean,” but the gun flicks to Sam’s left, and Sam’s eyes widen in horror—

Don’t worry, Sam Winchester.

“DON’T FUCKING MOVE, YOU PIECE OF—”

Sam’s surprised he doesn’t pull a muscle with how fast he turns back and forth between the being in his back and his brother in the front—‘Dad’ walks towards Dean, puts a calming hand on Sam’s shoulder as he does, cool as a cucumber, and Dean screams a tirade of curses because he’s pulling the trigger a dozen times without getting a single bullet out of it.

The gun clatters to the ground and Dean bounds towards ‘Dad’, and that’s where the god decides, “That’s enough.”

Dean’s body shoots three feet into the air—and stays there.

Like he’s bound to an invisible cord, he flails, obviously shocked but at least as unwilling to give up.

“What the—SHIT!”

The being notes, “This does not harm him,” upon Sam’s spike in adrenaline, and Sam feels pretty much like an asshole as he just stands there, watching, side by side with some stranger who’s wearing their father’s body.

The fury-shade of Dean’s face affirms that he’s not the only one with that opinion.

Sam’s brother is foaming at the mouth. “I—will—kill you.”

The god replies, “I doubt that.”

“Dean, he’s harmless—”

“Harmless my ASS!”

“—h-harmless, man, so, please, calm the fuck down, alright? He’s not gonna hurt you. Or me. Or anyone.”

Dean spits, “Yeah, right,” and bellows louder, “Don’t fucking TOUCH that!” upon the being walking to the spilled food, the broken glass.

They crouch, still in Dad’s body. Pick up a shard, a piece of lettuce.

Sam intervenes, “No, you’ll cut your—” but the bottles are intact.

The spilled beer is back where it belongs. The paper bag full of burgers isn’t ripped anymore. Just sits there, waiting to be picked up.

The Winchester brothers watch in silent horror as the creature grabs the items like They had seen Dean doing it, turn towards them, hold them up with that face Dad gets when he remembers one of their birthdays a day too late.

“Is this for consumption?”

~

The evening light filters through the many neglectable-sized holes of the Winchester home. Reflects against walls, the ceiling, on the many odd objects strewn across the various surfaces. It paints colorful, ever-changing patterns.

Sam’s brother has been quiet for a while now, but his eyes are storms.

In a futile try for harmony, ‘Dad’ turns into ‘Benny’—Dad’s clothes sit slightly loose on him. Dean’s reply is a twitch to his mouth, a snort. A refill of his glass.

They skipped the beer and went straight for the Jack.

“Awesome,” Dean grits with as little enthusiasm as he can manage, “just awesome.”

“They can be whatever you want.”

“What about ‘gone’, then?”

“Dean…”

‘Benny’ turns to Sam. “You said ‘Cas’ would upset him.”

Sam painedly nods into his palm.

“But I am _not_ Cas, and yet he is upset.”

“I can _hear_ you, asshole.”

‘Benny’ squints at Dean.

Sam?

Yes?

I do not like him.

“Great,” says Sam, shoves the leftovers of their meal further away. He’d love to join his brother and drink more, but his body is slowly but surely demanding reparations for the week-long space journey he just fucking came back from. He swivels his hand into the creature’s general direction. “Be a—a w’Asop.”

The w’Asop jumps from its seat onto the table. Dean puts a protective hand around his shot glass.

The w’Asop looks around, sniffles. It sits down and begins to clean itself.

The brothers watch in amazement.

“Great party trick,” admits Dean.

Sam’s cheek rests in his palm. He ordered the change himself, and yet…wow.

He croaks, “These went extinct, like…three billion years ago.”

Dean says, “Ah,” and the ‘I knew that’ goes along without saying, of course.

The w’Asop throws itself onto its back and purrs happily. It cranes its neck to look at Sam, who hesitantly begins ruffling its belly.

Dean tries, “A dove,” and while Sam wonders when and where the heck his brother picked that ancient shit up, the fur under his fingers turn into feathers.

Except that there never had been fur. It has always been—this.

The bird stumbles to its legs, flaps its wings. Pecks at its chest. Pitter-patters across the table.

“Okay,” grumbles Dean, “that’s kinda neat.” A challenging squint at the animal, whose eyes don’t seem to be able to focus on him (but somehow, it feels like they do, anyway). A sip of whiskey. “We could make so much money out of that.”

Sam splutters, “Dean!” and has the sudden urge to grab the tiny little heap of feathers and bones and just run for it. “We’re not gonna sell—anything!”

“Then use it for your studies! This is, like—hell, you know better than me how fucking priceless this is!”

“That’s not how it works, man.” Sam frowns, exhausted, and lets the dove gently peck at his biological fingers. Eyes to his brother. “You don’t understand. They are a god-like creature. They can bend— _everything_ ; time, space...”

The dove climbs his bare arm, struggles, half-flaps its wings to make it. Finally, it takes a proud seat on Sam’s shoulder.

Sam watches it, speaks quietly. There’s no secrets between anything and a mind reader, anyway. “They change their mind and it’ll be like we’ve never even known They exist.”

“Of course, I want to avoid that,” says the dove.

(Neither human—if they gave it any thought, which, surprisingly, they cannot—could say what voice it uses, or how it speaks. But the sound is there, in this room, loud and clear; they know _that_.)

“You could kill us,” says Dean, remarkably sober. “Could make it so we were never born. That this planet…this universe…”

“Of course,” replies the dove. Its beak carefully tugs at Sam’s earring. “But where would be the fun in that?”

~

Sam knows he’ll get that usual, “I have a bad feeling about this,” once they’re—on Dean’s request—alone and out on the balcony. Dean made it clear that yeah, Sammy, I know what a fucking mind reader is and that this doesn’t technically make any sense. Sam doesn’t demand that ‘but’ from him, as always.

“They’re harmless,” insists Sam with an assuring smile, and God, the warm breeze out here makes him even sleepier. “Try spending all your eternal life in a goddamn cave, see how fast _you_ wanna see something else for a change.”

“Said it yourself: They change their mind—boom.”

Dean leans back against the railing. Brought his glass and Sam swears he can see the itch in those fingers to go back inside to straight-up get the bottle. The lines around his eyes are heavy and deep. Sam doesn’t think he remembers them quite like that. But that’s what all the world-traveling does to you. Makes you lose your grip.

Applies to humans, at least.

They stand close and in tired silence. The dry wind slaps into Sam’s face, whips his hair around. The city around them never sleeps. Someone’s always got to remove the sand from the machines, at the very least.

Sam’s eye swims across the familiar scenery. The beautiful light paints this a true home. A paradise. Twelve years—farthest they ever managed to diverge from nomadism.

“I dunno,” hums Sam, far-away. “I trust Them.”

Dean scoffs. “Yeah, well—I don’t.”

Sam mocks, “‘Newsflash’,” makes Dean dry-chuckle like that and melts with the realization how fucking much he’s missed his family. “If you’re lucky, They’ll be gone—tomorrow.”

“Mh, you know how to get my hopes up, Sammy.”

“Yeah, well, it’s the truth, ain’t it? There’s no way of knowing.” Sam shrugs.

“You told him about Cas.”

“Huh?”

“Cas.” Their eyes meet. The roguery has retracted from Dean’s face. “He said his name. Said you said I’d get upset to see him.”

Sam chortles a guilty, small laugh. Twitches his shoulders in a half-shrug. “Yeah, you would have.”

“So, he was Cas for you?”

“I mean—for a moment, yeah. He picks all that f-from, from your mind, so. Was you for a second,” Sam diverts, “Mom, even.”

Dean’s eyes are strictly on him. Become heavy and dart around, find a thought—pick it up, turn it from side to side until they figured him out.

Sam’s stomach grips tight around his half-chewed food, and Sam knows what Dean will say. So he deflects, re-fastens his hold on the metal railing.

“Look,” he mutters, “I’m okay, alright?” Dean speaks with his eyes and Sam doesn’t even have to look at him to feel ashamed. Grabs at his own neck with his biological hand and assures, “Honestly, I’m fine.”

Dean simply and slowly spells out, “Sure,” and sips his favorite poison, and Sam allows himself to have that lie and leave it at that.

~

Sam Winchester’s back meets the door to his room, which would be spinning if he’d open his eyes. But he refuses.

Cas tastes just like he remembers. Smells like he always did after a bath—safe, happy, home.

He can’t stop kissing that mouth. The years have been too long.

Cas plucks and pulls at him, just as starved. Heaves him into the air so Sam can wrap his legs around him—Sam’s gained so many inches and pounds since then, but it’s like nothing’s changed, ever.

Cas walks them towards the bed. Sam’s holding on, grabbed tight to that old shirt he improvised from Dad’s closet earlier, dizzy with memories and the fucking heartbreak.

They fall, together. Cas tries his best to worm an arm free to get to work between their bodies, but Sam’s wound around him like a parasite. So they just curl and press and hold on, lost and found and Sam doesn’t have a breath of his own anymore.

His mouth is so familiarly scruff-burnt already and he growls upon Cas finally finding the pulsing line of his hard-on, rubs at it too-hard, just like he knows Sam needs it. Hands in Cas’ hair and their mouths part for the first time since they entered this room, and Cas looks down at him, and Sam looks up at Cas, and.

There are no words.

Tears scratch at Sam’s eye and around everything he needs and wants and urges to say, all he gets out is a trembling, “Please,” and Cas yanks his pants open and down Sam’s hips and dips back down to kiss all that time back from him.

Sam’s legs kick blindly in an effort to lose the pants, knock something off the nearby shelf but the clatter is trivial. Cas and him pant open-mouthed; Sam’s making short work of the fly of Dad’s old pants. They both get a little more breathless when Cas’ cock slaps free just to get an immediate and loving welcome in Sam’s confident hand.

Cas’ lashes flutter and he hums, pleased, as he’s getting stroked.

“God,” admits Sam, “I missed that.”

“I thought so.”

A playful twist over the crown. Cas would always get wet so easily.

Sam smiles. “You feelin’ that? Even though it’s not…technically, y’know, _yours_?”

“Yes.” The creature flashes Cas’ daring little grin. Rolls Their hips into Sam’s hold. “I feel all of this body, Sam Winchester.”

A sudden yank and Sam’s leg is hooked over Cas’ shoulder, and Sam gets his mouth eaten with Cas’ fingers rubbing at his asshole. He groans, gratefully, still jerking his bio arm, his prosthesis secure in that hair, thumbing along that temple.

“I can transform it however I want. However _you_ want,” They suggest, and the slutty part of Sam’s brain stutters, in-love, at the very instant and remarkable growth of the cock in his hand.

His thumb and middle part with the stretch.

He might choke on his spit, just a little.

They smile at him, all-too knowing. It shouldn’t make it even hotter. “You want him like you remember him, though. Tonight.”

Sam nods, beet-red.

Cas hums, tells him, “Yeah,” all softly and fond and brings his fingers to his own mouth to spit on them, fondle them back between them.

“Yeah, you need that, don’t you.”

Sam’s discarded his grip on that dream cock in favor of Cas’ neck. Holds onto him sweetheart-true like that while he drifts in those eyes, that attention. Gets breached by two tips of fingers instantly, no baby-shit, because they don’t need that.

Sam tremble-sighs and lets him in, relaxes and it’s so easy so instantly. Would let him crawl inside of him and he hears, “Yeah?” and vows, “Yeah,” and gets his tongue sucked as a reward.

Cas’s fingers corkscrew into him until he’s knuckle-deep with nowhere left to go. Bangs him out like they’re on a timer all over again, and Sam’s eyes roll, and his mouth whispers love words.

Cas growls into his teeth, adds a third. It’s a stretch, just how Sam remembers (after weeks apart, tense with the knowledge of you might have not come back—but I did—yes, yes you did, this time). Sam gets his thigh phantom-fucked. Doesn’t have to share out loud that fuck, yeah, do it, but he whines with embarrassment when the creature complies anyway.

When They lodge their knees into the mattress right, shimmy those pants further down with one hand, half of Sam’s mouth between Their teeth. Oompfs with the chest-to-chest press, the slick kiss of that glans right next to where Cas pulls his fingers out.

The push-in is chafing and slow. Would edge on painful if that blessed lubrication spell wouldn’t still haunt him after more than a decade.

The creature raises one of Cas’ eyebrows at that thought.

Sam gasps, “I, that was—I was,” but They just kiss him and press another few inches home.

It takes several blissful moments until he’s full. Until there’s nothing left of Cas to give to him but those shallow, deep thrusts. Just them, moving together, _feeling_.

Arms and bodies wound around each other, Sam wouldn’t trade this for anything. His tears flow into his ear.

“God, I missed you, I missed you so much.”

Cas kisses it better. Pumps his hips until he’s content with the space he’s carved out before he begins to truly move. Gets his knee down right and shoves into Sam’s body with growing thrusts; never once takes his eyes off Sam’s face, holds him by his hair.

Sam huffs, lets himself drift off. Lets that free hand paw at him, shove his shirt up to expose him further to those eyes.

His amulets drag over his collar bone, settle in the dip of his throat, lick at his throat.

He’s starting to feel cross-eyes, fast. Murmurs, “Daddy,” and gets a grip on his hip for that, more tongue, a deep noise that drags him down, away, home.

Cas slaps into him for real now, mean and steady like a machine, and Sam feels a new shade of embarrassment over how fucking wet his pussy sounds.

Cas slur-assures, “Perfect,” and Sam just buries his face in the crook of that neck to muffle his pathetic whimper.

Between their stomachs, his cock throbs forgotten with every perfect punch to his prostate, spills a little honey every time.

“You gonna let Daddy come inside?”

Sam blind-mouths, “Uh-huh,” and chokes off all the love noises trying to worm up from his chest, is so fucking grateful Cas just stuffs his mouth with his tongue so nothing and nobody can hear him coming apart.

Cas grinds them balls to balls as he unloads as deep as he can, shudders so sweet and Sam swears he feels it gushing inside of him. Whines, sadly, when Cas’ cock stops throbbing and Cas peels their bodies apart.

Just sits back on his haunches though, both hands strong on Sam’s hips now and effort-frowns—is still hard, still buried balls-deep and Sam fish-gasps, helplessly, as he feels it growing…harder?

Bigger?

“Give in.”

Sam slaps his bio hand over his mouth as he yelps on the next impossible thrust—which pulls him nearly inside-out with how rigged Cas’ dick now is, bulbous and not like the octopus cock he (faintly) remembers, just…

perfect.

Cas fucks him with just the grip on his hips, uses him like a doll instead that this is for Sam, and the stimulation is fucking _on-point_ , pressure-frictions him straight to the edge and over it, and he still has no idea what exactly hit him and why it did, but he’s coming, violently and hands-free.

Cas fucks him through it, all the way, and Sam can’t catch enough of a breath to plead for his mercy.

The creature slows eventually. Not before Sam’s reduced to a limp, wet mess, still convulsing around the too-deep, too-thick cock grinding into him. Slips Their hand over the cooling spill on Sam’s bare stomach and blankets the human at the beginning of a thought.

Sam nuzzles that face more than he actually kisses it. There’s only so much more life in him at this point.

A soft roll of hips. Sam can’t lift his legs anymore.

He shudders, “Fuck,” and feels the creature smile with Cas’ mouth pressed to his ear.

Sam slurs, “No more,” while he’s getting fucked again, stuffs a weak hand between them to try and make any impact at all. Gets his lip sucked and can’t open his eye right anymore; lets his fingers bump along the solid bulb-lined cock slopping in and out of him.

He manages a grip on those too-full balls and gets two too-thick tongues, a stricter snap of those hips. Tries to breathe around the intrusion and succeeds, sucks on them like they’re another pair of dicks. Is glad that he’s muffled like this and lets Cas put his arm back around his neck.

Hears, “There you go,” and drifts, drifts, drifts.

~

His fingers find the trigger under his pillow like it’s just another of his limbs.

Old habits die hard.

His nostrils flare with his panic-breath as he takes in—Cas’ face.

Night plunges the world into neon green. Chemicals reacting to the change of temperature, the changing distance to their sun.

Cas’ eyes watch him, awake, pure.

Sam catches his breath, on his stomach, up on one arm, and dislodges his prosthesis from his gun. He rubs his hand over his face and exhales.

The god says, superfluously, “It’s just me,” and Sam murmurs, “Yeah. I know.”

Sam turns his head out of his palm. Huffs as he sits up, pushes his hair back over his head, out of his eyes. He extends his bio-arm to levitate the glass bottle of water from the table across the room right into his hand to unscrew it. He takes several satisfying swigs.

He offers it to the creature, who just shakes Cas’ head.

Sam places the bottle on the crowded nightstand, scratches at his bare chest, lies back down. Cas runs his fingers through his hair, pets it away to turn it into a halo on the pillow.

Sam looks up at him. “Don’t you get thirsty? Hungry?”

“I do not require sustenance.”

“Not even water?” That lake. Enough H2O to swim in it, drown in it. What a thought.

The being shakes Cas’ head. “Not in this form.”

Cas’ lips press onto Sam’s. Sam kisses back, lets his eyes slide shut.

He rubs their noses together. The being catches on almost immediately. Sam scratches his thumb along the rough nine-o-clock shadow he’d be lucky to even _dream of_ , ever since...

“Whatever this is,” he murmurs, and he’s warm, and his chest hurts a little less with Cas’ hand cradling just above his heart, “I thank you.”

~

The information spans across the entire wall of Elder Papu’s office. She takes it all in.

Sam does the same, hunched over in his seat, and wonders if he could hex a hole into the ground to throw himself into.

She clicks one of her tongues. Has all her arms crossed and doesn’t look at Sam.

“Well.”

Sam begins, “They are of peaceful nature, but—”

“Foolish child,” his professor spits, “do not attempt to rationalize what cannot be understood.”

Sam says, “Yes, uhm,” and clears his throat. “Forgive me.”

She runs some of her fingers through her beard, intensifies her squint at Sam’s findings, the records from his cyber eye. She sighs.

“We knew the risks. It is a miracle you returned. That They let us find them…well, as they said themselves, they were aware it would happen.”

Sam gets a strict once-over and feels a little less confident (if that is possible anymore, at this stage of his report).

“Whatever Their plans might be—none of us will be able to intervene.”

Sam nods, sober.

“If They end us…this planetary system…time itself…well.” She smacks her lips, takes a seat on the edge of her table. “They would have done so with or without our interference.”

“Agreed. As you said, we knew the risks.”

She nods. “Indeed, we did.”

A flick of her wrist scrolls through the pictures—that lagoon, hidden under miles of stone. The lone Zhu-Lik flapping its bright-white wings until it’s out of sight. Sam feels a stray nudge of guilt, having left it behind down there.

He says, half-jokingly, “Guess it’s time to find another dissertation topic, huh?” and Papu tells him, “Yes, indeed.”

He nods, lips pressed thin, smile polite and eyes dead. “Yeah. Great. Okay.”

“You may, of course, observe Them further. See what They allow you to see.”

“Uh—yeah, I mean, of course, if that’s…?”

“But I advise you to be especially kind, Sam Winchester.”

He balks. “Uhm. Because…?”

“Because if they decide to vanish,” Papu says, matter-of-fact, “They might be nice enough to leave us in an alternate reality where you produced another, just as mesmerizing work.”

~

Sam climbs out of his ship. His feet hit the ground, raise orange dust. Charlie and Dean linger in front of their house, a crate of beer next to them while they tend to the scrapheap Sam’s brother refers to as his ‘baby’.

“Yo.”

“Hey.” Sam catches that bottle, presses it into Charlie’s hand though.

She beams up at him. “How’d it go?”

“They didn’t expel me, so.” Sam shrugs, his hands stemming into his hips. He nods. “I’m screwed, but, like, in an okay way.”

Dean decides, “Awesome,” and crawls back under.

“Dean-o over here filled me in.” She uncaps the beer with her bare, biological hand. She raises her drink towards him, winks. “Pretty badass, Mr. Winchester.”

“Thanks.” Sam fist-bumps the bottle.

“You got any pics?”

“Oh, yeah. Here.”

Her eyes flicker as he transfers the data to her.

She whistles. “Tentacles. Nice.”

“Yeah, well, not so ‘nice’ once they yank you off the ground.”

Her eyebrows raise further. Her mouth begins to peel into a mischievous little smirk.

Sam hisses, “Charlie,” and, “Not like _that_.”

Sam knows which god he can thank for _that_ part of the records not existing—not according to his prosthesis, at least.

That would have turned the briefing into something quite…different.

“They’re a cutie though,” the redhead insists, and Sam couldn’t think of any other human who’d see a ten-feet octopus monster with fifty-six pairs of eyes and label it ‘a cutie’. But that’s Charlie for you. “Can I borrow Them? There’s that mind-blowing blonde who’s depressingly straight but I figured, hey, if it’s only a double, that’s perfectly consensual. I mean, if They’re down with it, of course.”

Sam scoffs. “Go ahead and ask Them. I can’t decide that for Them. They’re not some kind of pet.”

Charlie slaps Sam’s thigh, big-sister-sharp. “Look at you being a good, honorable citizen, Samuel Winchester!”

“Listen, can you guys stop the pussy talk? Kinda need some help over here.”

“Oh, stop _whining_.” She kicks at Dean’s boot, takes a huge swig from her drink before she gets up. Throws a last glance at Sam as she pulls her gloves over her hands, hip cocked, shoulders bare in her oily tank top. Nods her head towards Dean, gives Sam a knowing look. “Like he hasn’t asked yet.”

Sam snorts and leaves the two of them to it.

They scored the property as a huge, unsuspected thank you from one of Dad’s late clients who made the still-questionable decision to put him in their will. With Dad fondness of being hard to find at all given times, of course, the news took some time to reach the beneficiary.

Turned out the state of the place was horrifying. But Winchesters don’t shy from some tough work, especially once Dad deemed it a tactically great spot for a semi-constant residence. Dean did most of the work—welding, cutting, hauling metal upstairs. The house overlooks the city. The neighbors are friendly enough.

Sam pushes through the beaded curtains, spots Cas by the window, smiles instantly. Says, “Hey,” and Cas turns his head, barely-smiles back.

“You, uh. Found his old stuff, huh.”

“I thought it’s more appropriate,” approves Cas, pats his chest, one of Cas’ old shirts. “I understand that your father does not appreciate his belongings being meddled with.”

Sam comes up to him and gives him a welcome kiss. Thumbs at that chin and strolls over to the kitchen counter, grabs a piece of fruit.

“Does this upset you?”

“What? Oh, no. I mean…” Sam scoffs, helpless. Shoots him a guilty glance. “Never had it in me to just toss them, is all. Just… I never assumed, of course, that…anyone would wear them. Again. Let alone…” He gestures towards Cas, who nods.

“His physical form expired two-hundred sixty five million seventy-eight thousand and three-hundred ninety-seven seconds ago.”

Sam nods with his smile a little tighter.

“He would have aged since you last saw him,” notes Cas. Not-blinks. “Should I adjust this body accordingly?”

Sam hesitates. Eventually decides, quietly, “Yes.”

He doesn’t even blink and Cas looks—different. Older. Less hair and more of it faded to gray.

He would be forty-two now.

Sam holds on to the kitchen counter, his food. He peels his eyes off the new sight eventually, takes a heartless bite. Proposes mid-chew, “How ’bout I show you ’round town? Stretch your legs a little,” and is grateful for the cheerful tone he manages to muster up.

They say, “Sure,” even though they both know they can see everything without being in front of it. “Technically, yes. But it is more interesting to experience it in person.”

Sam takes another bite. “Is there a difference?”

“Not one that would make any sense to you, I fear.”

Sam admits, “Fair enough,” and goes to retrieve his sunglasses from the kitchen table while he finishes his snack. “Let’s go, then,” he prompts. “The market’s gonna close in a few.”

Cas gives him a pregnant look.

Sam falters. “What?”

Instead of Cas, a tiny, whimsical troc sits by the pillowed windowsill now. It flies towards a reserved Sam Winchester and lands on his shoulder.

“More than his enemies, I fear his friends would not take well to see a dead man walking.”

“Oh. Oh, yes. Of course.”

“I could mask him for their eyes only, of course, but I fear your behavior would be a giveaway.”

“You’re absolutely right. Thanks for, uhm, looking out for me. Them.”

The bird says, “You are welcome,” in the same tone Dad would use if either of his sons neglected to thank him.

~

The smoke from Sam’s pipe curls into the thick midday air in purple, restless patterns. The tools on his utility belt chime with each of his steps. He’s walked these streets for the better part of his adulthood, knows them like the back of his still-intact hand. There’s not a single child who doesn’t know who he is.

Humans are infamous for lacking the capacity to understand the non-physical. Most adults belittle Sam and his profession or rationalize his magick to grasp-able things like ‘medicine’ or ‘games’; depending on what they’re after.

(You must understand that Sam Winchester is excellent at both medicine and games, of course. It is simply the case that magick does not allow you to categorize it and will give you a hell of a hard time if you try to do so.)

“Witch, witch!” the little ones will sing, dancing in circles around his mile-long legs, and he will throw gentle smiles, ruffle a soft head of hair if he gets the chance. The troc observes the commotion with the patience of a much older, much more knowing bird than it appears to be.

“Show us some magick!”

“Will you do the trick again, please?”

“Pleeease, Mr. Winchester?”

Sam tsks around his pipe, extends his bio-arm. The snap of his finger climaxes into a miniature firework with enough colors and sound to make the children squeal in delight.

“More, more!”

“Again!”

“Next time,” Sam promises, and the children leave him be, run back to their games that they had abandoned for him.

The troc bobs with the momentum of Sam’s steps.

There are a lot of humans in this place.

Yeah, hard to find a planet with habitable atmosphere in this solar system.

Fascinating.

Sam scoffs, eyes forward behind the tint of his glasses. You’re a god, and _this_ is _fascinating_ to you?

The simplicity of your race is utmost curious, yes.

That’s one way to put it, I guess.

The fruit trader wipes their hands into a nearby cloth. “Ah, witch boy. What can I get you? The usual?”

Sam replies with a distant, “Yes,” and flicks his finger at the grozg. “And two of these, please. How’s your aunt?”

“Oh, so much better. Those herbs sure kicked her in the you-know-what. Great to be doing business with you.” They hand Sam his food. “Your brother not with you today?”

Sam receives the bundle with a polite smile. “He’s spending his day off as he spends every other day of his life: buried in junk.”

“Tell him Kane said he can pick up that part he ordered, came in yesterday.”

“He will be delighted to hear that, thank you.”

“And tell him Maria asked for him,” adds Maria, eyebrows strict and her mouth set. Her parent looks at her first, at Sam later; in silent apology. “Tell him if he doesn’t show up tonight, he can _forget_ about that thing we were talking about.”

“I will pass on your message,” assures Sam, and that’s really all he can offer to her next to his well-meaning smile.

The biggest mystery Sam has yet to solve is how his brother to this day manages to fool anyone into falling for him. Talk is easy to go around in town, after all.

Maybe denial. Sam can’t blame them.

He marches on through the busy road, along stalls upon stalls of wares—food, materials, chemicals, parts, electronics. He makes sure to pick up a refill-vial of oil for his and his brother’s prosthesis’, a new bottle of their favorite whiskey.

There is no meat.

Sam murmurs, “Uh, yeah,” out loud because he forgets for a moment that nobody but him can hear the troc from inside his head. The crowd is too busy with their business though.

Why? Your species can digest meat.

“It—it’s the _law_ ,” frowns Sam, confused as to why They don’t know.

The bird quietly roams through Sam’s head. The endless supply of rules and laws.

Well. How disappointing.

“No, it’s crucial,” Sam points out, re-lights his pipe with the lighter in his mecha-finger. “Slavery, murder—Fed’s assessed death sentence on that shit. How’d you think there’s still humans around?”

The bird not-says, “I guess,” and sounds terribly underwhelmed.

Sam is quick to beg, “Please don’t change that,” with a tint of panic that lets his knees go weak.

“I promise not to change federal law, Sam Winchester.”

“Great. Thanks. Okay.”

“I do prefer peace.”

“Me too. Everyone.”

“Oh, trust me,” not-says the bird, “that is far from the truth.”

The line in front of the doc’s office curls around the block, per usual. Sam’s pace slows as he takes it in, tries to spot the ones too weak to wait or, possibly, be delayed until tomorrow—children, newborns, pregnant people, elderlies.

He inquires, “May I?” and the helpless young person cradling the beet-red screaming baby gladly hands it over to his offered palms.

“She won’t stop crying, I don’t know what’s wrong…”

“She’s bloated,” explains Sam, cradles the child with one arm while he rummages through one specific bag dangling from his belt with the other. “Boil two cups of water and let this seep in it for two hours. Have her drink the whole thing, she should be fine after. If not,” and he makes sure to give the assumed parent a firm glance they can see despite the blackness of his glasses, “let me know.”

They hold on to the small bundle of herbs like a lifeline and give him a faint, shaky nod.

“You know where to find me?”

“You’re the—the young Winchester, correct?”

“Correct.”

“Yes, I, m-my mother knows you. She’ll tell me. Thank you. Thank you.”

“Be safe,” Sam hums towards the both of them as he hands back the child. “Blessed be.”

“Blessed be,” they reply, blindly, because they must have heard of this happening before.

Sam carries the troc across town. Past every little shop, every unspectacular establishment. His herbs mix well with the cozy heat of their home planet and his steps are light. The bird observes in grateful silence without asking any more questions. How queer everything must be to Them—buzzing with life, as unimportant as it may be. Ants, squirreling away.

They pass a federal ship just on the edge of town, and both Sam and the troc turn their heads to keep watching them as they walk by. So obviously not-human, from so so far away. They don’t belong here, or anywhere.

Even if his father was no outlaw and his brother was no ex-rebel, Sam Winchester cultivates his doubt about whether he would be able to feel anything but uncomfortable around the agents.

The city sits in a giant crater. They reach the northern lip of it now and the witch exchanged his pipe for another piece of fruit.

Nana Jules peels rock blossoms on her tiny, old stool just outside her house. A peaceful, familiar picture. The sun begins to hide behind the seemingly endless, far-away mountain ridge.

“Oh,” she says, slowing her efforts, “is that young Winchester that I hear tip-toeing this way?”

“Have you been working all day, nana?”

“I _did_ drink the tea you left,” Jules insists. She puts her basket down, turns towards Sam with the warmest of smiles.

Sam retrieves a share of his purchased wares and carefully hands them over. “I brought you some plums.”

“Oh, why thank you. How kind of you. Oh,” she exclaims as her eye finds the patient little animal on Sam’s shoulder, “did you make a new friend?”

Sam scoffs. “Yeah.”

She leans in close. The bird remains unfazed. “My, I have never seen a troc this tame. Did you bewitch it?”

He offers a pliant, “Oh, yes, sure,” as he digs through his plethora of bags. “I brought you…now where did I put it…”

He doesn’t pay attention to the bird or the old woman. She asks, after a moment, “Are you sure this is a troc?”

His eyebrows raise. “I—why wouldn’t it be?” and adds a quick, “If it starts talking to you—”

“Now don’t make fun of an old woman! Of course a truc cannot _talk_.”

“Of course.”

“But isn’t it _odd_ , this little one.” She peers now, invested, her arms crossed in concern. The truc stares back at her. “You shouldn’t bewitch poor little animals. I am sure the government would not be pleased by this, Sam.”

“Oh, yeah, you are _very_ correct, nana. I will release them—him— _it_ , will release _it_ immediately. Once I get back home. Where I found it.”

Jules hesitantly turns her body (not her eyes) away from Sam and his company to pick up her overflowing basket. “How did your mission go, by the way? You are back earlier than we expected.”

Sam gladly accepts the heaping handful of petals and fills them into one of the nets from his endless supply. “Uhm, am I? Early, you say?”

“Why yes, you were barely gone a full month. I remember you saying it would take months, plural. Half a year even, maybe.”

“I must have meant the—the investigation and such. No, I was gone an adequate amount of time, and I made some good findings. Very curious stuff. Will take loads of time to analyze it all. Did you know,” he says, quieter now, reverent. The picture won’t leave him. “Did you know there are…lakes? Filled with _water_?”

Her expression changes. “Water, you say?”

“I saw a lake nearly as wide as our city,” the witch tells her, “filled to the brim with water. H2O. The real stuff.”

“Boy, don’t you mock me!”

“I would never,” he vows, removes his glasses, comes to a crouch to pet at her knees. “It was real. I saw it. _Miles_ of water.”

Her hands are atop his. Her mouth quivers, visibly unsure.

A brittle laugh. She rubs his bio hand hard enough to move her own skin across her fragile bones.

“I am glad you get to see such wonderous things, Samuel Winchester.”

~

“Maria sends her regards. You’re a dick.”

“Don’t you know it.” Dean lowers the circuit board he has been peering at half an inch from his nose to roll his bored doll-eyes at him right. He smacks his lips, flicks his hand towards the various bags dangling from Sam’s arm. “Be a peach and gimme one of those, yeah?”

“Or: you help carry them upstairs. It’s your food too, man.”

Dean scoffs, shrugs. “Let _him_ do it.”

Sam bumps into Cas’ chest as he turns around. Splutters, “Oh,” and lets Cas detangle strings and straps from his prosthesis.

“I do it because you are tired, not because he told me to.”

“That, that’s fine.”

Dean murmurs, “Asshole,” and yelps as the circuit board still in his hands sets off with bright and copious sparks. “ASSHOLE,” he yells now, louder because Cas has begun his climb up the winded stairs, “I was JUST done with this!”

“Stop ANTAGONIZING him, goddammit, you’re gonna get us all KILLED!”

Dean gets to his feet, flings the burnt-out part into the general direction of his tools. “Look, if you’d do a better job fucking POTTY-TRAINING him, this wouldn’t have happened!” Nose to nose with his brother now, his face jumps from fury to discomfort. He shoves a too-limp Sam’s chest. “Fuck, turn it down with the fucking smoking, you smell like _ass_.”

“Says the fucking gearhead. If you smelled half as bad as your heap of trash over there, that’d still be a massive improvement.”

“That’s what real men SMELL LIKE, princess! Now, if you excuse me—” He physically pushes past Sam despite there being plenty of free space around them. “—apparently, I have a date tonight.”

“Great. AWESOME.” Sam yell-corrects after him, “And for your information: it’s KLRT-B’GAH!”

~

Sam bangs the door to his bedroom, wrestles out of his shirt. Hesitates before he smells it and throws it across the room, to the others.

“No fucking idea what you’re even talking about,” Sam grumbles, pulls his boots off as he stumbles. “Fucking imbecile human trash.”

Once at his desk, he empties out his bags—herbs and petals and containers spill over the already-there mess and he sniffles, plucks a seemingly random mix of everything to cram into his pipe. He lights it, takes a long, heavy hit.

His lashes flutter on the exhale.

“Fucking pig,” he says for a last time, and takes another.

The room soon is filled with thick, fragrant smoke. Sam lights a row of candles, one incense stick for each cardinal direction. His flesh begins to crawl underneath the thin layer of his skin, his hair. He breathes deep and relaxed.

His body collapses into a seated position in the center of the chalky pentagram. The tips of his fingers find each other. His head hangs low.

There is no noise but the constant rush of blood in his ears, the drum of his heart. The distant hum of his own voice.

He sits like this for an undefined span of time.

As his eyes finally slip open once more, the room has begun to tint into green.

Bathed in sweat, his eye can barely focus.

“C-Cas…?”

The god sits on Sam’s bed in perfect silence, eyes unblinking and bright. Waits for him to regain his bearings.

Sam doesn’t know where he is. Then, he remembers. “Oh, shit,” he slurs. “You’re… I remember. Now.”

His face drops into his palms. Elbows on his knees, he breathes here for a moment. Returns into his body.

He doesn’t want to get up.

“Is this…bad?”

Cas stays quiet.

“Am I…a bad person…?”

“It seems to be perfectly normal for your kind to be very attached to one another. So, no, I don’t see how this is making you—‘bad’.” Cas considers. “Then again, ‘murder’ is also a very natural human thing. Maybe ‘natural’ isn’t what you’d call a positive trait in this scenario.”

Sam’s back bows. He’s oblivious to his physical pains. “Am I…using you?”

“Using me?”

“You’re…not him…and yet…”

“Stop this.” Cas is right in front of him now, seated and prying Sam’s hands from his own skull. “You are being ridiculous, Sam.”

The fat line of his tears cools against the dull air of the room. He trembles, helpless, speechless.

The god sighs so very much like Cas that it hurts.

“Now, how could I ever let something, let alone something as delicate as a simple human— _use_ me? I think you forget what I am. _Who_ I am.”

Those hands cup Sam’s drippy face. Cas frowns, put off by the vacant look, the nearly all-black of Sam’s bio eye.

More hands, until Sam’s face is framed. He can’t move. Can’tmove—

Cas is close (too close) and his eyes shine white, and every time Sam blinks there are more; like stars popping onto the endless sky.

Not-Cas reads him. Not-says, “You make yourself so vulnerable towards me. Why is that? I expected more of you.”

“No,” croaks Sam, breathless, “nonono, no, don’t go, don’t leave me!”

His wet hands grapple uselessly on Cas’ forearms—the scratch of his body hair, the distant nubs of scar tissue. Sam Winchester nearly falls, if it wasn’t for the hands holding him up by his face.

“I can be better,” he pants, “I can be, I can—be _strong_ , and, a-and stop smoking, if that, if—”

“Stop talking.”

“Whu—”

_“I said stop.”_

Sam sobs with every pain he’s been through in the past years. Getting kissed with Cas’ mouth doesn’t make it any better.

At first.

“Trust yourself,” They say as They begin to unbutton the fly of Sam’s pants, “like you trust me. Completely.”

Sam whisper-nods, “Okay,” and shivers upon his back meeting the cool floor.

They kiss him more, deeper. Sam manages to get a hold of Their hair, Cas’ hair. Buries and won’t let go, not again, never again.

Slurs, “Don’t leave me,” over a tongue and hears, “I won’t.”

They bend his legs at his hips until his thighs are firm against his ribs. Pull the fabric off him and Sam is overwhelmed with the sudden surge of his lust, pinned to that long-forgotten familiar place under this exact, warm body.

“You are remarkable,” says the creature, fond like a mother, and Their cock blind-smears against the hard knob of Sam’s tailbone.

Sam’s legs tremble helplessly, held down tight by countless arms as They reinforce Their efforts and find Their mark this time.

They push into him too-slick, and only upon a certain depth does Sam’s body point out that they have felt this before.

Back in the water.

They snap Cas’ hips, push Their slime deeper. Thrust again, and again, and Sam loses count eventually and moans.

His mouth fills with tongues and familiar smells and the mating tentacle in him forces further, bends and flexes to make appropriate space for itself.

Sam whimpers, anchored in Cas’ hair.

The god fucks him precise. Pushes at his limits and doesn’t make a sound, quiet as a tomb while their combined slick suck-squelches nasty with every too-deep thrust.

“It could only be you,” They say. “Nobody but you, Sam Winchester.”

“Fuck me,” he begs, “do it _right_ , _do_ it—”

They clamp his jaws shut as They begin to pound him.

Sam is nothing but the whirlwind under his skin. The skies in his pores.

He comes, shakes apart.

They cover up his nose, too.

They keep turning him out.

“I chose you. You are mine. Not the other way around. Not anything else.”

Sam’s eye flutters barely-open. His lungs begin to flail in alarm. His fingers tremble-skitter in their grasp, nails across Cas’ scalp.

They ask, “Do you understand?” with Cas’ sweat dripping down onto Sam’s face, with Cas’ hips slamming against Sam’s ass.

“I asked if you _understand_.”

Sam wants to scream, nod, _anything_ ; can’t. His grip in Cas’ hair begins to falter—no, _no_ —

All hands snap out of existence and Sam’s body shoots off the floor with his desperate haul for air.

They choose that moment to really grind home and begin to unload.

Sam’s body doesn’t know what to do—spasm, flinch, collapse?—so it gets stuck somewhere in between as he continues to gasp, violently, and his guts begin to swell.

He shudders. Cas is still staring at him, calmly, expressionless. He’s back to two eyes, two arms. Lets Sam grab at his face, pull him close for a kiss. And another.

Cas leaves his mouth open for Sam to drag his tongue along his lips—his teeth—his tongue.

Sam hums, exhausted. His forehead creases at the first hint of another thrust.

Cas kisses him through it. Spreads his load effortlessly, knocks him up right. Lets Sam whimper into his mouth on the pull-out.

“Get that object from your nightstand,” orders Cas. “You know which one.”

Sam whines, trapped.

“Yes, you will.”

Sam sniffles, irrationally turned on for someone who just shot their brains out through their dick, and stretches a trembling arm towards the cupboard by his bed.

The door stumbles open reluctantly. One of the bigger plugs begins its unsure flight towards them until it arrives, safely, in Sam’s hand.

Cas’ fingers curl around Sam’s, directs them over Sam’s bulging abdomen and between his legs to press the object in where he simultaneously slips out of.

While there still is no twitch to be found on that face, Sam has a strong feeling that They are pretty much…enjoying this.

“That’s—pretty kinky,” slurs Sam, and the god curls over him for another set of warm, sweet kisses.

A hand lays itself over his belly, spans the size of it. All gentle. “I want you like this, always. All the time,” They say, soft, up against the curling corner of Sam’s mouth.

“Still pretty fucking kinky,” chuckles Sam. His mecha hand curls over Cas’ on his stomach.

Cas smiles back at him, finally. “You’re excited as well. You think about walking around the house like this, naked. Cooking for me.”

Sam laugh-groans. God, he feels _heavy_. And, yeah. “I mean, you don’t have to eat, but…surely it won’t hurt. And, anyway,” he adds, contended, love-sick, “Dean won’t be home until tomorrow.”

~

The tiny projector shines that much brighter upon a good smack upon its hood. Sam’s hand then hovers towards his cup of (cold) tea. He takes a sip, two; distracted by the data on his walls, the expanse of his thoughts.

His prosthetic eye feeds more lines to the lot—neat, bundled paragraphs because he can’t have clutter in his notes, absolutely fucking not.

His eye flicks through the accumulated dates. Through numbers and pin-pointed terms.

A small hiss cuts through the otherwise silent room and Sam turns towards it, confused, just to find a very non-suspicious looking Cas in front of his herb supplies.

They look at each other for a moment until Cas admits, “It caught on fire, but I reversed it. Everything is as you left it.”

Sam slowly asserts, “O…kay.”

Cas takes a step back from the wooden drawers.

“You can, uh.” Sam rakes his fingers through his hair. “You—can reverse time. Reset things.”

“Why, yes. Of course.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

Sam blinks. It’s almost noon. “Did. Did you…”

The god didn’t bother to put clothes on Cas (which is fair, since Sam’s only made it into a shirt). Stand there with Their arms crossed behind Their back as if to feign innocence, and don’t blink.

Sam’s bio hand shivers towards his mouth.

“You did,” he breathes.

They remain silent.

“How, how long—”

“I will tell you, if you truly want to know,” They say, “but I would like to announce that I decided to alter your memory as little as possible. So, if you want the truth—of course, I will deliver. But it _will_ confuse you.”

Sam’s mind races. He _has_ to know. “How long did you keep me in that cave?”

Cas’ eyes are soft. His body is a dark silhouette against the daylight that filters through the rough, colorful curtains of Sam’s bedroom.

They tell him, “Eleven million eight hundred thirty-three thousand and eight hundred fifty-seven seconds.”

“That—that’s _months_ , why…”

‘Cas’ says, “I want you to stop thinking about this any further.”

Sam relaxes and turns back to his notes. Reaches for his tea again and blows on the cool liquid, lost in thought.

They walk up to him, put Cas’ arms around him. He lets his head drop backwards to cushion it on Cas’ stomach. Lets Them fiddle with his many necklaces, kisses those knuckles once he gets a chance.

Cas’ thumb rubs over one of Sam’s tattoos. “Tell me about these.”

“Oh, just sigils. Protection, mostly.”

“Cas has some of them as well.”

“Yeah,” smiles Sam. Looks up at him, all fond. “We did a couple to each other. This one,” he points at Cas’ pec, “and that one, for example.”

The god bows to kiss Sam on the mouth. Gets a gentle hand to Their cheek, the warm air rushing from Sam’s nostrils.

“You and him were very lucky to have found each other.”

Sam chuckles weakly. His hair falls into his face; Cas combs it aside. “Just wished we could’ve had a little more time.”

They say, “Many lives pass without a hint of what you two had,” and add, “Yeah, trust me: I know.”

~

“Maybe you should take him for a ride.” Dean lights Sam’s pipe to take a hit while he absently rubs his face clean with a towel. “Faaar away. I’m talking next solar system. Doesn’t he want to see more worlds?” Ignored, Dean takes another hit. Expels the smoke through his nose, and the mean set of his tired face finally, slowly begins to dissipate. “Just this shithole of a town… What’s to it, huh? Humans and dirt, that’s it.”

Sam’s got his chin in his hand, his elbow on the table. Requests, flatly, “Are you done?” and Dean nods, hands over the pipe.

Cas sits at the head of the table and doesn’t have any urge to add to the conversation. Or move, at all.

Sam plucks the herbs from his pipe to replace them with his favorite blend. It’s rare that Dean asks for anything—let alone what he calls Sam’s ‘magick mumbo jumbo’.

(As supportive as he is about his brother pursuing that queer profession of his, Dean Winchester is equally violently on the fence about the actual substance magick ensues. Took Sam long enough to convince himself that he’s got more going on than ‘your typical Winchester’s good fucking luck’.)

Dean’s glass fills generously. “There any more where you came from?”

“Is he talking to me?” requires Cas, turned towards Sam.

“Well, I do know where _he_ came from, wise guy. Yeah, I’m talking to _you_.”

“Address me accordingly.”

“Excuse me?”

“Try ‘God’.”

Dean snorts, drinks.

Cas turns back towards Sam, who is feigning extensive interest in the mechanics of his pipe. “I would like to point out that I could make him do it, but I choose not to.”

“Awesome.”

“Dean, quit it.”

“You can call me Cas. Sam calls me Cas. Currently, I am Cas.”

“Oh, nonono, _no_.” Dean’s pointer finger straightens, and he leans a little lower over the table. “No, you’re _not_ him, neither will you ever _be_ him.” Dean drinks. The herbs make him loose. He shakes his head. “I don’t care if you wear his face and if Sammy here wants to play pretend, well—”

Sam’s neck stiffens. The pipe lingers in his fingers.

“—that’s none of my business, to be frank, but you, sir, you are not my goddamn captain.”

Sam puts the pipe to his lips, dry-sucks on it. Lets the smoke crawl into him, fill him in where he lacks.

Dean slurs, “Ain’t no one ever replace our captain,” and Sam gets up from his chair at that.

Through the violent bang of the door, Cas remains seated, just like Dean. Who smacks his lips with hooded eyes, grabs the bottle to replenish where he’s empty.

“He acts like he’s the only one who ever gave two shits about Cas. Like we didn’t have to figure out what to do without him. Like we didn’t suffer. And we did. Whole crew. God. Did we ever.”

Dean throws back another shot. Didn’t even screw the lid back onto the bottle.

“Don’t know what to do with myself most days, to this day, still. And if not betraying all that is worth offing me for, then, honestly—” Dean turns, spreads his arms away from himself. “Go the fuck ahead.”

Cas scoots his chair back to get to his feet and gently opens and closes the front door before and behind him.

Hears, distantly, “Yeah, that’s what I fucking thought.”

He finds Sam by the cliff. Wind-whipped, his hair dances in too-wild patterns.

Cas carefully walks up to him, puts a reassuring palm on that shoulder. Another, when Sam doesn’t immediately lean into the touch.

Quietly, roughly, “Sorry,” and, “he’s an asshole like that to everyone. In case you were wondering.”

“Oh, no, I do not,” They reply, rubbing small circles into Sam’s stiff muscles. “I am aware.”

“I mean—I know you’re not him. I _know_ that. It’s just—” Sam huffs, exasperated. Turns to look up at Cas with pain tugging at the skin of his face, and he exclaims, “I can’t _not_ —be _happy_! To see him. You. To get to be with you again. Him. To, to talk to you, a-and hear your voice, and just, spend _time_.”

Sam’s hands are wrung around each other and his long-forgotten pipe. He’s barefoot.

“I want to have that,” says Sam, “and if that makes me the bad guy? Alright. Fine then.”

“That very thought bothered you last night.”

“Yeah, but I’ve made up my fucking mind. Like you said. Trust myself.”

Sam rises to his feet. Steps away from the too-close edge, towards Cas. Lets him put those hands on his hips, tilt his chin up to keep looking him in the eye. The size difference still fucks with him. It never used to be like this.

Sam grits, “I earned this,” and brings his bio hand up to cup at Cas’ cheek. “To see him again. I _found_ you. You _chose_ _me_.”

Cas comments, “Correct,” before Sam puts their mouths together.

“I was meant to have this.” Sam frowns, deep. Presses the two of them forehead to forehead, pulls Cas in with his hand on his face. The wind dances around them. “I was meant to be happy again.”

**Author's Note:**

> On a scale from Dean to The God, how well are you coping with the events of this chapter? Elaborate.


End file.
